I don’t know who is recieving this. I don’t know if anyone is left. But I am Gambit #17. And I am writing from the end of the world.
There are other Gambits left. The Elder Father tries to protect us as best he can, but mostly he sits in the middle of an empty room, built out of PVC piping and Verotik billboards, on a ramshackle throne. He dyed his long filthy hair white and wears only rags, muttering under his breath about “Continuity” and “The One Who Betrayed Them All”. I think at one time I knew what he was talking about, but that time is long gone.
I don’t spend much time in our camp anymore. We have little protection left and staying in one place for too long is the best way to get yourself marauded by Scoots, the roving packs of entertainment reporters and cartoonists, whittled down through years of starvation to around 300 pounds each. They ride their mobility scooters, long ago adapted to run off self-conducting generators. Fuel is a nearly forgotten fairy tale here in the Convention Center. They stalk camps for flesh, but those who have survived this long hardly provide much of a meal. The Scoots are hungry, and they angry. By the time you hear the buzzing of their scooter batteries, it is too late.
And so I wander, from Sails Pavillion to the Small Press Graveyards, scratching what I see on the decks and decks of promotional Red Dead Redemption playing cards I have gathered over the years, keeping my writings in the multitude of pockets in my tattered brown trenchcoat, the taped together remains of my bo staff bending with every gingerly step. I see grotesque recreations of the laws of nature as a man in a bear costume feeds on the corpse of a man in Chevy Chase’s shark costume from Saturday Night Live. I see the animosity festering between the two armies of Jokers; the Haumills and the Heathes. I see the darkness that radiates out from whatever is growing underneath the concrete floor of Hall H.
I see it all. I only hope I can live long enough to show it to you.